


Lemongrass Eucalyptus

by airebellah



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Ambiguous Age, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, First Time, Hand Jobs, Idol Worship, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Virgin Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: It wasn’t a fetish if he didn’t get off to it. Right? And that’s what Peter told himself.Sure, he trailed his fingers along Mr. Stark’s sparkling, porcelain bathtub that was bigger than most jacuzzis. Sure, he palmed his hardening cock through his trousers at the thought of Tony bathing in it, of warm, soap water dancing across his naked skin.But as long as Mr. Stark never found out... Peter would be fine.





	Lemongrass Eucalyptus

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: Peter "accidentally" sneaking into Mr Stark's bath, but he wasn't expecting him to be already there

It wasn’t a fetish if he didn’t get off to it. Right? And that’s what Peter told himself.

Sure, he trailed his fingers along Mr. Stark’s sparkling, porcelain bathtub that was bigger than most jacuzzis. Sure, he palmed his hardening cock through his trousers at the thought of Tony bathing in it, of warm, soap water dancing across his naked skin. Sometimes, he even pictured Tony fucking people in it -- never Peter, no, not in his wildest dreams. Plus, that would be _weird_ _,_ and this wasn’t a _fetish_ after all. No, he just… pondered the highly possible situation. And simultaneously rubbed himself through his pants.

Which, honestly, was not that weird. He was a horny teenage virgin. His dick twitched at a light  _ breeze _ _. _

As long as Mr. Stark never found out -- not that there _was_ anything to find out -- Peter would be fine.

 

He spent so much time focusing on ensuring no one caught him sneaking inside Mr. Stark’s bath, he never thought to make sure no one was already there. As helpful as his spidey-sense was, it had one massive loophole: it did not alert him to the presence of people he subconsciously considered non-threats. Of course Mr. Stark, his long-standing hero, crush, and idol, all wrapped into one bundle of nauseating worship, was pretty high on that list. So as he crawled along the ceiling, dick already hardening in his pants, he failed to realize Mr. Stark was already there. Lounging in the bath. Because, well, it was his  _ private bath. _

So when Peter successfully dropped to the floor and patted himself on the back (quite literally), he choked up when he spun around to find Mr. Stark looking up at him with a curiously cocked brow. (Again, quite literally - he actually began choking on his own spit, and spent about thirty seconds just coughing and wheezing.)

“Is there some kind of emergency, kid?” Mr. Stark drawled. His tone was breezy and careless as he lifted a glass of wine to his lips. He also, rather alarming, eyed Peter’s crotch area. “Something… I should know about?”

“Uh, no,” Peter rasped. He couldn’t think of any natural way to cover his crotch. So instead he thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to subtly adjust the fabric. The twitch of Mr. Stark’s bearded lips told him he failed miserably.

He wondered if that had been his way out -- or maybe his way  _ in _ _ , _ if he had been brave enough to act out the cliched beginning of a horrible porno.  _ Yeah, there’s an emergency… In my pants! _

Alright, he would have to come up with something better. Tony Stark deserved more than that. But it was neither here nor there, because instead of saying something (in, or out, or none of the above), he just stood there. And realized that Mr. Stark’s didn’t have any jet streams running, and there were no bubbles. Only calm, crystal-clear water separated his junk from Mr. Stark’s. (And some jeans, which he could easily rip off.) As Mr. Stark took yet another sip of his wine, Peter wondered why he hadn’t been thrown out yet.

“Are you dirty, Parker?” 

“It’s not like that, I promise, sir!” Peter was quick to placate. It was a total lie. “I-I didn’t know you were in here, especially not naked! I mean, I didn’t even know what this room  _ was _ _ , _ I was just practicing my wall-climbing and-and, sleuthing skills? And I thought, what better place than Stark Tower, right?”

Mr. Stark snorted into his glass. “I think you misunderstand. Are you  _ physically _ dirty? Would you like to get clean?”

In his mind, Peter could not map out the path of their abrupt conversation. He removed one hand from the depths of his pocket to rub the back of his neck. “Uh, no? What?”

“You can join me, if you like,” the man said, opening his arms invitingly. “There is a lot of room in here, and I could use some company.”

Peter was going to say no, he really was. But then the offer of company seemed so full of promises for  _ more _ _ , _ and next thing he knew, his thumbs were nervously hooking into his boxers, the rest of his clothes piled by his feet.

“You don’t bathe in your underwear, do you, Parker?”

Perhaps fortunately, Mr. Stark’s withering gaze had sufficiently wilted Peter’s fledgling erection. At least he wasn’t some aroused, eager puppy as he slipped into the bath with his mentor -- no, just a flaccid, eager puppy.

He started at the opposite end but was beckoned closer and closer, until he settled mere inches away from Mr. Stark. “Shall I use my hand?” the man asked.

Not for the first time in his life, Peter wished there was a human equivalent of a “SERVER ERROR” sign. Maybe the words “Does not compute” could flash across his forehead.

For once, at least, abject silence worked in his favour. Mr. Stark held up an amber bottle of soap in one hand. “Shall I use my hand,” he repeated. “Or would you prefer I grab a sea sponge?”

_ Do not say hand, do not say hand, do not say _ _ \-- _ “Hand,” Peter answered weakly.

He watched, mesmerized, as Mr. Stark pumped the olive-toned cream into his palm. “Well?” the man prompted without looking up. “Get yourself wet first.”

The teen dunked into the water without another word; it was the perfect warmth, not too hot, almost blending with the temperature of his skin. He was tempted to test his lung capacity, stay under here and gather his wits, but the promise of Mr. Stark lathering him up in soap had him surfacing in no time. His hair broke out into a mess of curls, all dripping cooling droplets down his neck and back. 

The soap was startlingly warmed as Mr. Stark began slathering it across Peter’s shoulders. He wondered if Mr. Stark had warmed it up in his palms, or if it had a fancy warming machine. The sensation was nice, at first -- just purely, genuinely  _ nice _ _ , _ having someone rub at his back. He had never had a massage before; in all honesty, the thought of a stranger touching him like that was moderately revolting. But now, as Mr. Stark’s calluses danced across his spine, he could see the appeal. His eyes fell shut and his head tipped back as Mr. Stark lathered up his back, chest, and stomach. He may have flexed his muscles extra hard, as the man's fingers danced up and down the divets of his abdomen. 

And perhaps that action was just tempting enough -- Peter could barely believe it when he felt the man’s fingers stroke further, further,  _ further _ down. As a matter of fact, he did not believe it at all, thought it was merely the production of an overactive imagination. That is, until the wrapping of Mr. Stark’s hand around his cock coincided with a husky chuckle in his ear. He could not summon the wits to be offended by the indignity; the hand tightened before pumping with a speed that put even the horniest, most desperate, supernaturally-enhanced teen to shame. Peter was torn between his overwhelming, unimaginable arousal and the almost painful, perfunctory nature of his mentor’s movements. It seemed to speak, to utter any noise at all, would shatter the moment; so he trapped any noises (pleasurable or painful, he could not quite tell) in his chest, tongue pressed behind his painfully clenched teeth.

But perhaps that was not the game Mr. Stark was playing, because as Peter huffed and squirmed and tried to keep quiet, the man’s free hand raised to the boy’s nipple, already taut from the contrast of the room’s cold air. He was gentle, at first, just barely ghosting the pad of his finger across Peter’s skin. And Peter thought that maybe, just maybe, he would get through this _(whatever_ this _was, he was beyond comprehending)_ in one piece, despite the furious beating of his heart or the heat building in his groin, but then Mr. Stark’s fingers closed in on a pinch, so unexpected and harsh, that Peter’s hips buckled as he cried out.

“‘M gonna… oh,  _ God,” _ Peter moaned.

And then --

His upper body fell forward; he had to catch himself on the edge of the tub before rewarding himself with a face full of water as Mr. Stark’s hands suddenly withdrew.

“What was that now?” the man asked. His tone was not flat, but nor was unaffected. It was almost flippant, as if he had merely misheard an inane remark about the weather.

Peter’s mind was reeling. Had he… had he simply imagined it? He certainly had a lot of practice, laying in bed at night and pretending it was Mr. Stark’s hands and not his own that were rubbing along his cock or tentatively prodding his hole. But  _ no, _ as he looked down, he could see the tell-tale smear of soap patterned along his right nipple.

He somehow felt more daring in that moment than when he had decided to take down the Vulture with nothing more than a poorly-sewn onesie, as he risked a glance over his shoulder at Mr. Stark. This time, however, there was no reward for his bravery; Mr. Stark stared at him, passionless, and shrugged a single shoulder. “Well, you look clean to me,” he stated before gesturing somewhere behind the teen. “Towels are over there. You can see yourself out.”

Now normally, Peter was quick to obey his mentor. Sure, there were a few times he had, as Spider-Man, refused Mr. Stark’s commands. But out of the suit, he was practically at Mr. Stark’s beck and call. (Not that Mr. Stark really ever  _ beck-or-called _ him, but.) It was some odd mixture of innate fealty and a misguided belief that maybe, one day, Mr. Stark’s feelings toward him would change.

Yet he could not help but stare, unwilling to move away when his cock still throbbed at the memory of the man’s hand around it. Mr. Stark was entirely unfazed, leaning back against the edge of the tub as if he, well, owned the place.

And maybe -- maybe there was a challenge in his eyes. A certain glint, as the man’s head cocked to the side and his lips showed the barest hint of an upward curve.

Perhaps Peter should have been daring, in that moment. Reached forward, taking Mr. Stark’s cock in his hand (but how could he, when he was too scared even just to _look down)?_ But his erection was rapidly wilting as the man continued to stare at him, unspeaking, and Peter’s muscles froze up at even just the _thought_ of making a move.

“Sir, I-I.” He found his voice, at last, and it was only mildly broken. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Don’t you?” Tony countered.

Maybe if Peter had not been some inept, fumbling,  _ virginal _ teenager, he would have known what to say or do next. Maybe if he had been  _ smarter _ _ , _ he could have cracked the confusing language of adults, who said one thing with their mouths and another thing entirely in their minds. Instead, he just shook his head.

“Well.” Tony sighed, sinking down into the water until he could rest the back of his head against the cool tile. He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on, then.”

More than anything in that moment, Peter could not tolerate the heavy disappointment in his mentor’s voice; whatever leftover desire that had been stirring in his belly turned to a knotted, nauseating ache. He did not exactly flee the room, if only because the tile was so slippery and he could not stand any further embarrassment. But his hands trembled as he grabbed his pile of clothes, and the shame he felt as he walked out of Mr. Stark’s bathroom, naked and dripping wet and a few measly pumps away from orgasm, was far beyond what he had felt when the man had left him crying and alone on top of a building in nothing but pink  _ Hello Kitty _ pyjama pants and a tourist tee.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think :) You can always visit me on tumblr under the same name


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